


Rule of Thumb

by RueRambunctious



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Partners to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-07-18 19:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19963789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: What good is a bodyguard without two fully functioning thumbs?





	1. The Break

When he feels the bone break Sebastian experiences a brief shock of pain. Seconds later he refocuses on the task at hand – the consequences of failing being more serious than a mere cracked bone- but he is careful to switch to swinging with his other fist.

He's already tired, so the haymaker that broke his bone must have been sloppy, but by the time he is tying up the last of the fighting he is near worn out.

Not a matter. He has enough in the tank to finish this and a little beyond should any further snags arise.

And that's when the second burst of pain travels up his arm.

The blow that causes it is light; he has feinted with his injured fist to go in hard with his other. Grazing his assailant's raised forearm and meaty shoulder should not cause such a shockwave of pain. It screams up his elbow and cries into his own shoulder.

Sebastian sighs, sets his jaw stubbornly, and uses his uninjured hand to drag the other man down forward at the same time as raising his knee swiftly. 

The painful blow is enough to daze the other man, who has not been able to properly protect his face or now streaking red nose, and that is ample opportunity for Sebastian to bring down his working fist in a hammer punch against the blackout spot at the back of his opponent's skull.

The man staggers forwards, and Seb kicks him; a stomp to the side of the knee as Sebastian sidesteps that brings out an ugly noise from the semi-conscious man, and then a harsh kick to the face when the man falls to his knees.

Sebastian stomps the prone man again to make certain his attacker is in no mood to try to get back up, and then Seb finally tries to flex his injured hand.

It bloody hurts. The pain is a vivid ache akin to walking for hours on a broken bone, but he's hardly even moved the wretched thing. 

He steps back and glances at his hand. His thumb is bruising already, and he knows from experience that it's unusual to bruise any part of the hand other than the knuckles, so that stripe across the first joint of his digit suggests he's not being a drama queen.

Sebastian glances back around and sweeps the room. It's neutralised, and thankfully his boss Jim Moriarty doesn't seem to have noticed anything amiss.

Jim turns, sees Seb towering over the last assailant, and snaps his dainty, white fingers. Sebastian follows his principal out to the car whilst the rest of the team deal with much safer tasks.

Seb steals a brief comparative glance at both of his thumbs whilst Jim is snarking at his driver. It could be his fancy, but Sebastian harbours suspicions throughout the entire car journey that his injured thumb is already swelling up.

He does not look at it again deliberately, because Jim would notice, and for that same reason Sebastian also tries not to avoid looking at his hand altogether. 

The meaty part at the ball of his thumb has started bruising. That's not even where the pain is.

Jim's occupied with his phone. He barely glances at Seb. Good. Sebastian would very much rather this issue fly under the radar.

Sebastian follows Jim out of the car. The chauffeur opens the car door and the doorman welcomes Jim and Sebastian into the building so Seb does not have to reach for either door. Functionally ambidextrous but primarily right-handed, it is not out of place when Sebastian reaches for the lift button with his uninjured left hand.

Jim snaps over his phone case and pushes it into the pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers. “You're remarkably unremarkable for once,” the Irishman says.

Sebastian forces his expression to remain bland and innoculous. “Am I?”

“It's a welcome change,” Jim says as the doors open mechanically. He waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Keep it up.”

Sebastian nods obediently and tries to flex his hands behind his back. He can barely move his thumb.

“Wash that blood off of yourself and make me a coffee,” Jim says as he slinks towards the dining table and pulls open his laptop. “I have some work to contend with.”

Seb glances down at himself almost surprised by the redness -little if any is his own he is sure – then straightens and gives another respectful nod. He escapes through to the bathroom as slowly as he can manage to walk for fear of arousing suspicion.

He locks the door and leans against it. He lifts his stiff, swollen hand and examines the pitiful thing. That purple stripe across the joint has moved, and the knuckle below it has dramatically swollen. The fat, fleshy part is bruised in two places: a large, consistent bruise at the bottom, and an odd little triangle near the life line of his palm. Ironically both bruises surround the part of the hand palmistry suggests a lack of luck.

Sebastian feels that lack of luck as he tried to move his thumb. His pinkie finger twitches towards it in his effort to bring them together, but it makes his thumb tremble painfully just to come shy of his middle finger.

He sighs quietly and shrugs out of his shirt jacket. Pulling it over his right hand is awkward but not impossible and he dumps the clothing in the laundry bin.

He unfastens his gun holster one-handed and puts it on the sink counter.

His shirt comes off next, and fecking slowly. It is new, and expensive, and the tight, stiff buttons are more difficult to appease than Jim's hangry tantrums after not eating for however long some supposedly important or fascinating project requires the consulting criminal's attention.

Sebastian now hates the shirt with vitriol and will never truly forgive it, even if the relief at managing to finally shake the thing off is almost orgasmic in euphoric relief.

Seb knows he's taken an inordinate amount of time fighting the shirt so rests a hand against the wall to reach in and switch on the shower. And almost falls as his hand screams at him in indignant horror.

So much for masking the sound of undressing lengthily as Sebastian hopes instead that Jim has not heard him almost brain himself against the gleaming and unhelpful tiles.

Seb takes a step back, toes off his shoes, and unfastens his belt one handed. Unsnapping his fly takes a whisper, a prayer, and a moment of ignoring the pain as he tries to force his entirely useless thumb to be a team player. 

Sebastian shimmies his hips and tries to encourage his trousers to fall to his ankles. He looks down at the tight elastic of his underwear and feels a silent noise of distress vibrate his throat.

Seb slides the fingers of his injured hand under his waistband and prises it at an angle to help his good hand wrestle his most unwilling briefs to lower.

At least it only takes one hand to remove his socks.

Sebastian finally steps into the shower and switches it on. How is he going to dry himself or -feck- dress again?

Sebastian dips his face under the water and scrubs at his neck and head with his good hand. He squints down at himself and can't see much blood, so he keeps mostly out of the stream of water and examines his thumb again instead. Swollen, and limited movement, but relatively indifferent to the heat of the water.

Sebastian stands for a few moments then switches off the shower. It will be better for the noise to run for longer, but apparently he cannot currently manage switching the shower off without being under the water.

Sebastian steps onto the small (but doubtlessly expensive) bathroom rug and drips there. He grabs for a towel and drags it over his face. What the fuck is he going to wear?

He bends and picks up the rest of his clothes which he throws in the laundry too. Seb finds he cannot tightly wrap a towel around his waist one-handed, so he presses the edges to himself as he dips and picks up his shoes.

Then realises he cannot unlock the door with both hands occupied. He rolls his eyes and drops the shoes quietly. He hopes he won't get scolded for those later and opens the bathroom door.

Jim's laptop keys don't stop clacking, so Sebastian carries on through to the bedroom.

What can he wear?

Underwear is out for a start. Seb looks out an oversized teeshirt and wriggles it on. Socks, as it turns out, are a lot more difficult to put on one-handedly than they are to pull off.

There's a baggy zipper and matching sweatsuit bottoms in the closet. Sebastian manhandles them out and stumbles his way into them.

Coffee. Jim asked for coffee.

Sebastian does his best to hide his bruising in his pocket and makes his way to the kitchen.

Jim barely glances his way from the table. He's grimacing at the screen.

Seb knows it's not a good idea to draw attention to himself when Jim makes that face. The blond sets about making coffee. He almost whimpers when he discovers he cannot open anything one-handed. He perseveres with his brute strength and manages not to break anything, but he does almost spill coffee beans all over the counter and floor.

The important thing is that he manages not to (just barely). Sebastian prepares the coffee and carries it through with his good hand. It's not worth attempting to make one for himself right now.

Jim grunts at him as Seb sets the drink down.

Sebastian takes that as permission to retreat. He makes his way to the bedroom and sits down at the end of the bed. He examines his hand some more. It hurts less, and that purple stripe has moved again, but the movement is limited.

Seb sighs and lies on his back. He hasn't dried properly and he feels his teeshirt suddenly stick to the damp skin of his back, but he is in no real mood to care. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them he is hungry, but it's still daylight and he still hears Jim's clacking keyboard. The Irishman could probably source a quieter one but has likely noticed how Seb judges Jim's needs by the sounds of the keys.

Cooking is out, probably.

Could he make bacon butties? He could stab open the packet and – be completely incapable of splitting open never mind buttering a roll.

Soup? Onehanded with a ringpull? How about a future with no thumbs?

Sandwich? He can manage a sandwich, right?

Said sandwich barely resembles anything more than the efforts of a toddler on mother's day, but Jim's terse mood is favourful enough that he eats without looking away from the laptop screen.

Sebastian finds some trainers he can shove his feet into without having to lace up and escapes outside. Food for himself can wait.

Is he imagining the issue with his thumb? Maybe it's just bruised? Sebastian examines it musingly and weighs up getting it checked out.

He's going to need an alibi of sorts if he does. Is it worth it? Is he really injured? Even if it's broken, does that matter? Seb has endured plenty of broken bones without going to a hospital.

He can't move his thumb though. What good is a bodyguard without two functioning hands? What good are firearms without opposable thumbs? He can't even grip a knife with his injured hand right now.

Sebastian bites his lip. If anyone can pull off being a one-handed bodyguard it's him.

He gingerly attempts to move his swollen thumb. Nope.

Sebastian starts jogging in the direction of his gym. There is plenty of gym equipment at home, but Sebastian often attends a number of classes at local gyms because proper sparring just cannot be simulated adequately at home. He typically makes no effort to hide his old military tattoos, and he often disappears for months to return with a tan and various injuries, so the other gym goers tend to presume he is still in the forces.

He does not disillusion them. 

When he gets in someone is playing rock music but the other background noises of people working out suggests there are no classes currently in session. Seb goes to his locker out of habit and realises he has no hope of putting on boxing boots to walk across the mats. Barefoot it is. 

He grabs his gloves and forces them on as he walks towards a vacant punching bag. No one notices him fumble the velcro straps with his teeth, or his lacklustre aping of warming up. No one pays much attention to the creak of chains as he starts working the bag and he shields his injured arm from view with his body as he swings punches that do not genuinely collide.

He works for a while, until he almost forgets the stress he feels.

The soft clanks of weights stop abruptly as Sebastian lets out a curse and steps back from the bag.

Meerkat eyes turn to look at him. Seb pulls off his glove with an honest grimace and holds his injured arm to his chest.

“You alright?” calls one of his BJJ friends from a high vantage point on the chin bar.

Sebastian grunts and tries to move his fingers. “Dislocation maybe,” he says. “I've tape in my locker.”

A woman steps away from the bar she had been lifting and dusts her palms on her thighs. She reaches for Seb's hand and examines his sweaty, swollen thumb critically. “I'd get that checked,” she says. “Might just be a sprain, but I think it's a break.”

Sebastian pouts and pretends to consider. “Yeah, alright,” he says at last.

He puts his gloves in his locker and puts his trainers back on. He gets some water then heads out towards the hospital.

His alibi is sorted, but Seb also knows fine well that Jim tracks his phone and he'd rather his employer didn't know his whereabouts right now. If a brace or cast or -feck- surgery is required Seb will deal with explaining that when he has to.

He hopes he doesn't need surgery. Jim will be pissed.

Sebastian makes his presence known at reception and takes a seat. Without his phone he has nothing to distract from what is likely to be a long wait. Seb gazes at his thumb and hopes the hindered mobility is merely swelling and not torn ligaments.


	2. The Hospital

Jim rubs his face and realises his eyes are being strained by the glare of his laptop screen in what is now a darkening room.

“'Bastian? Come put the light on for me, won't you?” Jim calls.

The building is silent in response. Jim hunts out his phone and switches on the light that way. Scowling and squinting in the sudden brightness, Jim considers his bodyguard's whereabouts. Jim vaguely remembers Sebastian going out in a tracksuit for a run or some such a while ago, but the man should have the decency to be back by now. By the estimation of Jim's stomach it is surely approaching time for dinner.

Jim flicks through his phone for the tracking app he has for his employee. He has different groups set up for different task forces and teams, but Sebastian Moran is almost always at the top of Jim's Frequently Used these days.

'Bastian's tracker is switched off.

Jim blinks at his phone for a moment. He checks his unsurprisingly strong wifi signal then goes into 'Bastian's details and checks when the app last received data regarding the man's GPS location.

Hours ago. Jim's expression all but blue-screens for an instant and then his brain kicks into use. For a start, that address is Sebastian's sparring gym, and there is CCTV all around that place which Jim is perfectly capable of hacking into.

Jim does, and opens out the wider ring of his tracking systems to ascertain whether his absent bodyguard came into contact with any other known party (friendly or otherwise) in recent hours.

Jim finds footage of Sebastian leaving the gym alone and so cycles through various street cameras to keep the big blond in view. 'Bastian does not appear to meet anyone at any point, but something seems off to Jim about the man's gait. Jim has seen Sebastian nigh on every day since the man became part of Jim's personal security detail.

It takes Jim a few minutes to determine what is peculiar about the footage, but eventually Jim realises this Sebastian's body language is tight, stiff and uneasy. The way Sebastian twists his face away from obvious CCTV cameras seems anxious… almost _guilty_ … and something about the way 'Bastian is holding his right arm is all off.

Jim's blood pounds in his ears. He does not expect betrayal from Sebastian Moran of all people. The blond idiot is efficient and-

Jim scowls and shuts down that line of thinking. He starts plotting out 'Bastian's route. Where is the bastard going?

Jim glares at a map and compares Sebastian's movements. 'Bastian is travelling in a fairly straight line and there isn't much in that direction other than… a hospital?

Jim remembers telling 'Bastian to wash blood from himself but hadn't thought much of it to be the blond's. Ordinarily he would have one of his personal doctors tidy his bodyguard up if there were wounds 'Bastian could not easily deal with himself.

Jim remembers noticing the blond almost drop the coffee earlier, which was out of character, but not peculiar enough at the time to take much notice of.

'Bastian did take a long time to shower. Perhaps he had stitched up an injury and then pulled said stitches at the gym?

That still wouldn't explain why 'Bastian decided on the hospital not redressing his injuries at home, but Jim looks over the footage again with renewed interest. Sebastian's arm or right side could be injured; he is certainly holding it strangely.

Jim watches Sebastian enter the hospital grounds and tersely picks up his phone again. Jim calls his driver.

Jim continues spying on 'Bastian's during the journey to the hospital, but the footage becomes sparse once Sebastian reached the reception. Jim hacks into the hospitals records and finds 'Bastian under the blond's own name.

Suspected sports injury.

Jim gets out of the car and enters the reception. 'Bastian is gone. 

Jim fast-forwards the footage and sees the blond called into triage. The Irishman strides up to the counter.

Moments later Sebastian is surprised to see Jim if the way the big man jolts to his feet is any indication. “Sir,” he blurts, sounding nervous, “I-”

“What the hell, 'Bastian?” Jim snarls. “Your phone is off, I couldn't-”

“I'm sorry,” Sebastian says. He quickly walks forward, and for a strange moment Jim thinks his bodyguard is approaching _him_ , but then 'Bastian reaches up and pulls the blue curtain across pointedly. It doesn't give them any real privacy at all, but it reminds Jim that they can be easily overheard.

He says, “You disappeared from the gym without a word-”

“Just a minor injury,” Sebastian says.

“And you didn't think to tell me?” Jim snaps.

'Bastian's gaze flickers to their surroundings as though worried that Jim might say something untoward about their job earlier. As though Jim is foolish.

“I didn't want to worry you,” 'Bastian says, and Jim narrows his eyes further at the lie. The blond cringes his broad shoulders a little and says, “I've had a couple of x-rays. They're just waiting on a specialist.”

“What did you actually _do_?” Jim asks.

Sebastian swallows. “Nothing much. Broke a bone. Just checking there's not much ligament damage.”

Jim feels like taking a swing at the larger man. “And you didn't think to tell me because-?”

Sebastian takes a step backwards and sits down on the bed like a scolded schoolboy, head bowed and fingers gripping the side of the unwelcoming vinyl.

“What did you break?” Jim asks.

Sebastian draws back the arm furthest from Jim as though fearful of having it struck. “Just my-”

The curtain is drawn back. Jim spins around dangerously.

A brown-skinned doctor with a clipboard and a junior doctor in tow pops his head around the curtain. “The plastic surgeon's on his way down.”

'Bastian cringes without even looking at Jim's murderous expression. “Thanks,” he says. He waits for the pair to move along then holds up his left hand to Jim placatingly. “The plastic surgeons deal with hands,” the blond says. “The first specialist wasn't sure about the x-rays so-”

“So it's your hand that you've injured?” Jim surmises coldly.

Sebastian is very quiet for a beat.

“Well?” Jim demands.

“My thumb,” 'Bastian says quietly. The fact that a bodyguard needs working thumbs hangs in the air between them.

“How bad is it?” Jim asks at last. His expression is tight.

Sebastian shrugs infuriatingly. “Not bad,” he says meekly. “One of the bones has splintered, and that's totally fine as long as it hasn't damaged any of the ligaments.”

“And has it?” Jim asks gruffly.

“They're not sure,” Sebastian admits in a small voice. “Everything's swollen up so they can't tell whether it's the swelling hindering my mobility or… ligament damage.”

“If you're damaged?” Jim asks harshly. He doesn't mean for his words to make his favourite bodyguard flinch.

“If it's minor ligament damage they can put me in a splint to keep the splintered bit of bone from doing anything further,” Sebastian says. “If it's… worse than that… They'll need to do surgery.”

“But you'll regain proper use of your hand afterwards?” Jim asks.

Sebastian lifts his head slowly. “Yeah.”

Jim strides across the room and strikes 'Bastian hard across the side of the head. Either the blond doesn't expect it, or he doesn't dare protect himself, because he makes not move to stop the blow.

“Why didn't you tell me that first?” Jim demands loudly.

Sebastian guiltily looks at his feet. “Best case scenario: I'm in a splint for four weeks,” he says.

Jim blinks. That is most inconvenient. “I'll deal with you when you get home,” he says shortly. He would turn tail and leave, but he wants to hear what this supposed specialist has to say.

Jim is not impressed to find that the supposed specialist is less than a decade older than the teenage girl who came around earlier, and is even less impressed when the bearded prick takes one look at the atmosphere Jim and 'Bastian's body language presents before asking Jim to wait outside.

“It's okay,” Sebastian protests. “He's my...”

There is an uncomfortable pause. The plastic surgeon raises his heavy brows.

“Partner,” Jim spits tightly. “I'm his partner, and we've just had a spat because he's been hurt practising that stupid blood sport of his again.”

Sebastian looks dumbfounded for a second. “I… I'd like him to stay please,” he tells the doctor.

The bearded man points a warning finger at Jim and has no idea how close he is to having his moneymaking fingers snapped off piece by piece. “Anything unhelpful from you and you're out; got it? This isn't the place for arguments.”

Jim inwardly fumes. “Make him better please,” he says through his teeth.

The specialist takes 'Bastian's hands and compares them, then gets the blond to attempt various movements. Jim feels uneasy as Sebastian admits an inability to squeeze or adequately move his injured digit.

“I… guess you're cooking tonight… babe,” Sebastian jokes weakly as the surgeon straightens up solemnly.

Jim gives the man a Look but channels most of his attention towards the specialist. “What do you think?” he asks with a surprising lack of resentfulness.

“It's a really unusual break,” the bearded man says, “but surgery won't be necessary. I'll arrange to get your boyfriend a splint.”

Jim twitches. “That's superb; thank you,” he says robotically.

Sebastian takes a deep breath and leans back as the doctor retreats. “How much trouble am I in, boss?” he asks apprehensively.

Jim shoots him a glare. “What's that saying about 'the rule of thumb'? A man can't beat his wife with anything thicker than his own thumb?”

“Guess I'm lucky your hands are small then,” 'Bastian jokes bravely.

Jim's eyes flash. “There are enough sharps around to make you a _wife_ , Basher,” he warns.

Sebastian falls quiet and tries not to think about the way being his employer's wife or boyfriend makes his insides tighten.


	3. The Awkward Meal

The painkillers offered are only ibuprofen and Sebastian declines them – he can get much stronger fare from Jim's bathroom cabinet if necessary. He mutely follows Jim out to the car park and tenses uncomfortably waiting for the consequences of everything that has happened.

Jim says nothing. He gets into the car, slams his door, and waits expectantly. 'Bastian gets into the other side of the car quietly. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to fasten his seat belt.

A smirk and a frown dance awkwardly over Jim's face; the brunet says nothing but afterwards holds out his phone to Sebastian. 

The bond's fingerprint is saved to allow him to complete tasks on Jim's behalf. 'Bastian bites his lip and takes the device with his good hand.

“Your phone died, right?” Jim says with bared teeth.

Sebastian's ears turn pink.

Jim stares at him knowingly. “Be a good wife and order us food. I haven't paid enough attention to what you eat.”

“Yes sir,” Sebastian says quietly. “What do you want?”

Jim curled his lip in distaste then rolled his eyes and pointedly exaggerated his grimace. “It's been so long since I've eaten that I've lost my appetite. _Someone_ was too busy switching his phone location off to make me a meal.”

“You still need to eat,” Sebastian argues.

“And you need to inform me of any changes to the norm without having the audacity to go AWOL, and yet here we both are,” Jim says dryly.

“Don't be a chi...” Sebastian trails off warily and looks at his employer out of the side of his eye to assess just how big of a mistake the comment is.

Jim presses his lips so tightly together that they turn white, and does not say anything for more than a beat. Sebastian waits very quietly.

Jim takes a deep, exaggerated breath. “I am going to be magnanimous because you've been under some stress and what _better_ be a lot of pain,” the Irishman growls.

Sebastian swallows and nods quickly. “Sir.”

Jim snaps his fingers at his phone. “You had best order me something delicious, or all you'll be tasting is my shoe leather.”

“Right away,” Sebastian mumbles. He stares fixedly at the phone screen and swipes through the app with his good hand.

They don't tend to have takeaway food often. Previously Jim had chefs prepare most of his meals, but once Sebastian had become live-in security he'd started to do the cooking himself. The blonde always ate heartily to maintain his powerful physique and cooking for the admittedly difficult to please Irishman had rarely been a hardship for Sebastian; Jim's smaller portions were almost inconsequential in the amount of effort to cook for him too.

On the rare instances that they actually did order food, it tended to be on a whim of Jim's. Given the choice Sebastian tended to pick curries or anything well-spiced and full of protein and carbs. He burned a lot of carbs keeping Jim Moriarty's hours.

It occurs to Sebastian now that his preferred lamb dish from his favourite Indian place is out of the question: he cannot reasonably dish up food one-handedly, much less use two utensils to cut meat (however tenderly cooked).

What can he eat using one hand?

“How's Italian for you?” Sebastian asks.

“Oh, in that case don't use the app,” Jim says, snatching back his phone. Sebastian flinches, wary of having his broken bone jarred, and hopes Jim is too focused on searching for a number to have noticed.

Jim hasn't missed the surprising reaction, but makes a call anyway. He charmingly threatens a talented chef to prepare him a pasta dish and have it delivered: Jim then throws the phone at Sebastian.

The injured blond catches the mobile a little more tensely than usual.

“Tell the nice man what you want, 'Bastian,” Jim says.

Sebastian swallows a sardonic reply and instead opens his mouth to order a pizza covered in as many varieties of meat as possible.

Then he stops. Overladen toppings are likely to fall off, and Sebastian's reflexes are such that he is likely to try to catch the mess in his hand… which might stain his new splint, not to mention feel most unpleasant.

“Can I have a margherita pizza please?” Sebastian asks a little dejectedly. “A big one.”

The anxious Italian on the other side of the call agrees shakily and fervently. Jim takes the phone back and ends the call with a tightness around his brows; he knows that is not his bodyguard's usual order.

“Penance?” the criminal asks.

“You didn't let me order dessert,” Sebastian responds dryly, not that he minds.

Jim snorts unkindly. “Just be glad I am not feeding your hand to you.”

“They're the most valuable part of me,” Sebastian mutters.

“I could have a great deal of fun with you even if I removed pieces,” Jim warns. “And your eyes would make a charming desk ornament in my office.”

Sebastian blinks reflexively. “I'd rather you didn't do that, thanks all the same.”

Jim chuckles briefly. “I'll keep that in mind, 'Bastian.”

The blond opens his mouth to reply, but is distracted by the car slowing as it pulls into their street. “I guess we're home.”

Jim reaches over and unfastens the bigger man's seatbelt. “Come along then.”

The returning surge of embarrassment gets caught in frustration as Sebastian rushes after the brunet to provide cover to Jim as they make their way inside.

The most alert of the other security glance at Sebastian's cast curiously. Its ugly beige isn't a terrible match for his tan skin and he has pulled his sleeve over it as best he can, so he feels a little relief that they are attentive enough to notice such a thing even if it does make his ears a little hot.

“We're expecting a food delivery,” he tells one, lest the chef's delivery person meet a horrible end.

Jim swans on past without a care for this (he'd probably find such an accident amusing) and starts unfastening his outerwear. He starts to throw his coat to Sebastian to tidy away as usual, before wordlessly stopping and dealing with his things himself.

Sebastian doesn't know how to respond to that, so he toes out of his shoes instead.

“Does it hurt?” Jim asks.

Sebastian looks back to the Irishman with surprise. “A bit,” the blond admits. “I know it's there, enough that I can't quite ignore it, but it only gets bad if it gets attention.”

“Attention?” Jim queries.

“If I'm so foolish as to try to use any of this hand,” Sebastian expands.

Jim nods thoughtfully. He looks like he might say something more but does not. He hovers a moment longer then floats in the direction of his couch.

Sebastian rubs at his splint absently and follows. 

“Four weeks,” Jim comments.

Sebastian stiffens and pauses awkwardly at the side of the couch. “Yeah,” he says meekly.

“You can't even make a coffee without spilling it,” Jim says with narrowed eyes.

The bodyguard's shoulders hunch. “I'll get used to… this… and it won't hurt as bad in a few days I'm sure. I'll be able to do more.”

“You certainly will not,” Jim declares sharply. “You will rest that hand exactly as much as needed. If you don't regain your competency with a firearm you are of markedly less value to me.”

Sebastian swallows. “Yes sir,” he says hoarsely. He feels a little sick.

Jim turns and rests his back against the side of the couch with a noise of disgust. “I'd put you down now if I didn't value your skillset so much.”

Sebastian fervently urges his thumb to heal swiftly.

Jim glowers and casts the big blond a sidelong glance. Sebastian's white cheeks must affect him somehow, because the Irishman reluctantly says, “Even if you can't hold a gun accurately again, you're still of value to me. But I shall be _very_ cross, and you shall feel it.”

Sebastian swallows.

Jim tuts and twists around to face the back of the couch. “Sit down. You're making me irritable just looking at you.”

Sebastian warily moves quickly towards the seat and perches himself on the edge of it. Jim kicks at him. “Lighten up, won't you? You're making me tense.”

“Sorry,” Sebastian says.

“As you ought be!” Jim sniffs. “You might think that is _your_ hand you've broken, but I own you, and those hands work for me.”

Sebastian's fingers flex softly and he curls them closer to his chest protectively. “I didn't mean to-”

Jim quietens the other man with a raised brow. “Are you arguing with me, 'Bastian?”

“No, I-”

“You are still doing it, 'Bastian,” Jim warns.

Sebastian brings another apology to his lips, but a noise alerts him to the arrival of their food. He jumps gratefully to his feet and is almost at the doorway when he realises he is going to struggle to open the door, receive the food and close the door again without using one hand.

Thankfully, he manages to open the door and just about balance his pizza on his arm whilst holding Jim's pasta securely in his good hand. He retreats slowly and kicks the door closed.

How the hell is he going to dish up Jim's pasta?

Jim seems to have the same skepticism, because he appears at Sebastian's side. “Don't get used to this,” he says sternly, then grabs the pizza from its precarious perch and sets it down.

“I wouldn't dare,” Sebastian murmurs.

Jim goes clattering in the cutlery drawer for himself. “Just you be very glad, 'Bastian my darling, that Daddy isn't sending you straight to bed with an empty tummy and a well-spanked bottom.”

Sebastian's ears go pink. He's never found the daddy thing amusing (likely given his estranged relationship with his own toxic pater) but Jim refers to himself thus often. It makes Sebastian's stomach uneasy whenever Jim talks that way.

“You had better not be ignoring me after your poor performance today,” Jim snaps, turning around. “What did I just say?”

Sebastian chokes. “I wasn't! Sir!”

“Then what did I just say?” Jim demands.

Sebastian makes a face at the floor. “That you'd spank me and send me to bed hungry.” Which he was, given that he hadn't eaten when he'd made that sandwich for Jim.

Jim gives him a crooked look. “No-o-o,” he says lightly. “I said you should count yourself lucky that I haven't done that. Is someone choosing what he wants to hear?”

Sebastian's cheeks flush. He tries to move past Jim to help pull out a plate. “Do you always need to make fun of me?” he mutters.

Jim swats the bigger man's thigh playfully. “Only when it's amusing, and you have been naughty.”

“I didn't mean to break-”

“You're not in trouble for breaking your thumb,” Jim interrupts sharply. “You're in trouble for trying to hide it from me.”

Sebastian flinches and lowers the plate meekly. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“As you should be,” Jim growls. He slaps 'Bastian's bottom firmly, but it almost seems affectionate. Sebastian considers that with a dazed frown whilst Jim sets out his own dinner things.

“You can't have wine with your painkillers,” Jim announces.

Sebastian looks up and moves his pizza box to the table with his good hand. “I'm fine without it. Or them.”

“You'll take what I give you,” Jim declares archly, and Sebastian watches in surprise as his employer fetches a glass of water and some tablets.

“You can take your jaw from the floor,” Jim grumbles. “You'll need it to eat.”

Sebastian falls into his seat and throws open the box. “Yes, boss.”

“Don't get used to this,” Jim sniffs. “I just want to eat whilst my food is still warm and you are impossibly slow with that hand.”

“Course, sir,” Sebastian mumbles.

Jim stares at him for a beat. “You're impossible,” he announces, but doesn't expand on his statement.

Sebastian sits guardedly with one arm slung around the box. He's not certain how gracefully he can lift a pizza slice with one hand. “You like impossible things,” he mutters.

Jim snorts, but it's less amused than before. “Is that why you're so difficult? You think it will make me like you?”

Sebastian shifts his weight uneasily. “I was more concerned about displeasing you.”

Jim stabs his meal. “I am furious with you still,” he says.

“I misjudged what would make you the least amount of pissed off I guess,” Sebastian says mildly.

Jim stares at the blond hard enough to make Sebastian shiver. “Don't ever do it again. I don't ever want to come looking for you again, understood?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Sebastian urges quietly. He raises his splint. “Four weeks of being an invalid after all.”

“Damned right you're grounded,” Jim grumbles into his pasta. He stabs at it some more but doesn't eat any yet. “As if a bone ever heals as quickly as the doctors say.”

Sebastian swallows. He's had that thought himself, but hadn't dared voice it. “What are you going to do with me?” he tries to joke.

Jim stares at him with dark eyes. “I'm certain I'll think of something.”


	4. The Pizza-Cutter

Sebastian does his best to keep his head down and draw zero attention to himself as he eats. His current strain of luck appears not to have improved, however, as he finds it is rather difficult to eat a pizza from a box using only one hand.

Separating the slices is the worst. He tries to pick up a triangle and let gravity take care of fully separating it from the others, but even when that tactic works (rarely) the other slices falling back into the box is a redistribution of weight that twinges the splinted arm awkwardly wrapped around the box, and that sensation is unpleasant to say the least. Sebastian has already lost count of the amount of winces he has bit down upon, and that isn't even taking into account the nuisance of congealing cheese sabotaging his efforts.

Jim is visibly getting irritated by the noises Seb makes. Between the whimpering, dropping pizza slices, and noisily dragging slices around the box trying to shake off the others, Sebastian is not a silent dinner companion tonight.

“For Christ's sake, 'Bastian, do you need me to cut that up for you like I'm your mammy?” Jim snaps.

Sebastian swallows. Whenever twinges of his employer's Irish accent come through it means that Jim is annoyed, and that's always dangerous. “Do you want me to go eat in my room, sir?”

Jim's dark eyes glint as though somehow provoked. “I'm not letting you out of my sight again.”

Seb lowers his gaze feeling rightfully chastised and embarrassed about it. He's supposed to be a professional, so he shouldn't let Jim out of his sight without leave to do so, much less sneak off and have his principal come track him down.

Sebastian puts his pizza box aside.

Jim's eyes flash again, and he raises one dark brow querulously. “Did I tell you that you could leave the rest of your dinner, 'Bastian?”

Sebastian swallows and feels like a child when his ears turn pink at the recollection of Jim's earlier threat: to be sent to bed with a smacked bottom and no supper. The blond answers hoarsely, “It was disturbing your peace, sir.”

“Now you're annoying me, 'Bastian, and my beautifully cooked meal is getting cold,” Jim says in a chilly voice. “Pick up your dinner before you make Daddy even more cross with you.”

Sebastian is pretty sure the pink blush has spread to his cheeks, and that's entirely humiliating for a man in his profession. He avoids his employer's gaze and picks up the box with his uninjured hand.

Jim puts his own food aside and shifts his weight to take something from his pocket. Sebastian fixes his gaze on the familiar blade and is surprised when Jim reaches out a hand for Seb's box.

Sebastian relinquishes the object and blinks as Jim flicks open the blade and carves it along the edges of the pizza triangles, severing the congealed cheese that had bound them together. Jim nudges the pizza slices to separate spaces on the cardboard then drops the dirty knife into the box and pushes it back wordlessly across the table to the blond.

Sebastian is unnerved by the unusually charitable action and does not dare raise his gaze to Jim lest it provoke the man. Seb takes the pizza with a subdued, “Thanks, sir.”

Jim grunts and takes up his fork again. He nudges his pasta with a look of distaste.

Sebastian feels a surge of guilt. Jim isn't much of an eater, and rarely returns to a meal once interrupted. “Do you want me to go re-heat that for you, sir?”

Jim twists and gives the bigger man a glare. “No, I do not, 'Bastian. I want you to do as you're told, like I pay you to do. My meal is fine.” He stabs at his pasta and takes a violent bite at it to prove his point. 

“Sir,” Sebastian acknowledges mildly. He picks up a slice of pizza and tries to make a show of his deference and obedience by eating.

Jim grunts again and pokes viciously at his own food.

Seb works his way through the rest of his pizza. It's noticeably bland without any toppings, but he's been hungry for most of the day. Fighting earlier had burned plenty of calories, and then the worrying and waiting around… it had been a long day. His uneasiness had dampened his appetite at first, but the more Sebastian eats the more he recognises just how famished he was.

Jim's lips quirk. They seem to be frozen between curling in disgust at Seb wolfing down his cooling pizza, and stretching into some form of approval at the blond's zealous obedience.

Sebastian finishes eating and reaches for the painkillers. He's still not convinced that he wants them, as although his thumb aches in a way that cannot be ignored, it's still _bearable_ , but he wants to prove that he is indeed still capable of following instructions.

Seb is glad that Jim has already pushed the tablets from their packaging, because that would not be easy to do one-handed. Sebastian risks a glance up at Jim as he places a pill on his tongue and reaches for his glass.

The Irishman gives him an amused look. “Starting to see sense, are you?”

Sebastian swallows. “It's my job to follow your orders, sir.” He takes the second painkiller.

Jim Moriarty scoffs. “That it is, 'Bastian. I am now dismissing you to go rest; I need to find myself your replacement, or completely rearrange my calendar. Probably both.”

Seb lowers his gaze feeling berated. “I can help-”

“You can do as you're told, Basher my darling, or the replacement I find won't be _temporary_ ,” Jim snaps, eyes flashing irately at the further (well-intentioned) disobedience.

Sebastian swallows. He stands and murmurs an apology, then picks up his pizza box and carries it to the counter so that he can lift out the knife before binning the cardboard. It occurs to the blond that he cannot crush the box one-handed.

Seb sighs. “Do you want me to take this downstairs before I go rest or afterwards?”

Jim stares at him hard. “Did I tell you to clear the table?”

Sebastian blinks in confusion. “No-”

“So go the fuck to your room before I start breaking the rest of your finger bones,” Jim Moriarty growls.

Seb swallows. “Yes sir,” he says.

Jim gets up and carries his own plate and cutlery to the dishwasher, which is a sight never before seen by Sebastian's incredulous blue eyes. “Enjoy your nap, you brat. Daddy's going to spend the next few hours clearing up your mess.”

Sebastian doesn't dare laugh at the irony of that statement, even though he can feel the nervous chuckle shivering its way up his throat. He disappears to his room before Jim throws that knife or anything else at him.

Seb can hear Jim calling a replacement before even reaching his bedroom door.


End file.
